THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PEBBLES  FROM 
PARNAS  S  U  S 

Comprising  Rhymes  of  Revolt 
and     Flitting     Fancies 

By  WILLIAM  J.  FIELDING 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY  GEORGE  R.  KIRKPATRICK 


BOSTON 

THE    GORHAM    PRESS 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  WILLIAM  J.  FIELDING 


All  Rights  Reserved 


AN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Some  of  these  verses  have  appeared  in  various  publica- 
tions, and  for  permission  to  reprint  them  in  this  volume  the 
author  makes  grateful  acknowledgment  to  the  Editors  and 
Publishers  of  Pearson's  Magazine,  Judge,  Town  Topics,  The 
New  York  Call,  The  Newark  Leader,  and  other  periodicals. 


* 


TO  A  COMRADE  AT  REST 

MY  FATHER 
THIS  BOOK  IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


A  WORD  OF  WELCOME 

Whoever  can  add  even  one  breath-brief,  worth- 
while poem,  even  one  living  stanza,  aye,  even  one 
lovely  line  to  the  world's  scant  store  of  music — 
has  a  right  to  sing.  So  rare  is  music  on  this  dull 
cold  orb  of  ours  that  this  right  to  sing  is  a  right  most 
precious  to  the  race. 

Are  not  Strode's  sweet  words  immortal  with 
truth  ?— 

"When  whispering  strains  do  softly  steal 
With  creeping  passion  through  the  heart, 
And  when  at  ev'ry  touch  we  feel 
•  Our  pulses  beat  and  bear  a  part; 
When  threads  can  make 
A  heart-string  quake, 
Philosophy 
Can  scarce  deny 
The  soul  consists  of  harmony." 

Shall  we  not  say  to  the  modest  Author  of  the 
present  unpretentious  volume,  "Sing,  and  sing  with- 
out regret  even  if  some  remorseless  critic  and  the 
pitiless  guillotine  of  time  should  slaughter  every 
line  but  one." 

The  evolution  of  aspiration  lies  close  to  the  evolu- 
tion of  appreciation  and  achievement.  Whoever 
aspires  serves,  and  serves  well  by  aspiring. 

GEORGE  R.  KIRKPATRKJK. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Proem 9 

RHYMES  OF  REVOLT 

Awaken,  O  Spirit,  Be  Free 13 

The  Evening  of  the  Kings 15 

They  Call  It  "Preparedness" 17 

What  Is  War— And  Why? 18 

A  Philanthropist 22 

The  "Reformer" 23 

The  Politician 25 

The  Prince  of  Profiteers 27 

"In  the  Interest  of  All — Always"     ....  29 

The  Boys 31 

To  Old  John  Gutenberg 34 

Our  Nameless  Heroes 35 

Jingles  of  the  U.  S.  Jungle 39 

Black  Beauty's  Return 41 

Coming  Into  Her  Own 43 

The  Black  Flag  of  Capitalism 45 

The  Deadly  Parallel 47 

FLITTING  FANCIES 

Color  Song:    Green 51 

Love 52 

The  Primal  Call 53 

When  I  Dream 55 

7 


PAGE 

September  Morning 56 

The  Orchid  of  Nymphaeum 57 

Pan 60 

Smile  Awhile 61 

My  Hosiery 62 

Among  the  Fervent  Immortals 63 

Aspiration  Versus  Inspiration 65 

Doleful  Lines  to  a  Doubtful  Dean    ....  67 

Happy-Go-Lucky  Optimism 69 

My  First  Vacation  Girl 70 

The  Old  Iron  Growler 73 

The  Poet  Humorist 75 

The  Wants  of  Man 76 

The  Bolt  From  the  Heavens 77 

The  Good  Die  Young    ........  78 

Jeanne   D'Arc  .     .  • 79 


PROEM 

I  warn  the  reader  lest  he  may  surmise 
Herein  there  rests  some  rare  poetic  prize — 
Some  golden  nugget  rich,  or  priceless  find 
That  from  Parnassus'  sacred  heights  was  mined. 

Expect  to  find  no  gem  of  lustre  tone, 
No  brilliant  crystal  rarity,  or  stone 
Resplendent  with  the  rainbow's  blended  hues, 
Embellished  by  the  magic  of  the  Muse. 

The  Pebbles  gathered  here  are  coarse  of  grain, 
Most  rough  and  ready,  commonplace  and  plain; 
Though  some  may  shine  in  spots,  however  small, 
Like  common  quartz  beneath  a  waterfall. 

These  specimens  are  offered  on  the  chance 
Of  combining  some  protest  with  romance, 
In  plainly  shapen  bits  for  social  Rebels 
And  others  who  nee  merit  in  mere  Pebbles. 


RHYMES  OF  REVOLT 


AWAKEN,  O  SPIRIT,  BE  FREE 

I  see  the  most  harrowing  sight, 

The  sweltering  lives  of  the  damned — 
Damned  by  their  reasonless  blight, 
Doomed  to  the  darkness  of  night, 

With  only  a  cheap  flicker  shammed; 
Shut  off  from  the  beauties  of  earth — 

At  some  they  may  look  but  not  touch — 
Because  of  their  plebeian  birth, 

Although  they  have  labored  so  much; 
Labored  and  suffered  such  pains, 
Yes,  forged  and  fastened  their  chains — 

The  chains  that  have  shackled  them  long; 
How  long — Oh,  how  long  shall  it  be 

Till  they  use  the  strength  of  the  strong? 
The  strength  to  set  themselves  free! 

I  see  the  vast  multitude  crushed, 

Great  fortunes  made  out  of  their  bones, 
The  voices  of  little  ones  hushed 

With  the  final  dirge  of  their  groans, 
No  ages  are  spared  in  the  grind — 

Not  even  the  life  in  the  bud — 
Where  Mammon,  sitting  enshrined, 
Watching  the  tortures  refined, 

Gloats  in  its  Temple  of  Blood! 
The  masses  are  rankled  with  pain, 

The  bodies  of  men  are  held  cheap, 
Because  of  the  slumbering  brain; 

The  Spirit  of  Man  is  asleep — 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  dumb, 
Dreamless  and  drowsy  and  numb! 

13 


I  see  the  great  mass  of  men  duped — 

Duped  by  the  cant  of  the  priest, 

Doped  by  the  dogmatic  feast 
Prepared  for  those  mentally  drooped; 

Imbued  with  a  brotherly  hate, 
Enslaved  by  a  clerical  spell, 

Pursued  by  a  creed-ridden  fate, 
In  fear  of  a  mythical  hell; 

But  blind  to  the  hell  they  are  in — 
Bound  by  its  deific  ties, 
Crazed  with  its  sanctified  lies! 

Come  out  of  your  mind-fettered  trance, 
Oh,  Spirit  awake  and  be  free, 

For  yours  is  the  cosmic  expanse — 
But  when — Oh,  when  shall  it  be? 


THE  EVENING  OF  THE  KINGS 

The  Kings  of  earth  have  loosed  the  flood 

That  spells  the  sealing  of  their  doom; 
Their  dynasties,  conceived  in  blood, 

In  blood  are  passing  to  the  tomb. 
The  writing  on  the  wall  looms  large, 

Foretelling  of  the  regifall — 
A  monarchal  eviction  charge 

Proclaiming,  while  the  rulers  pall, 
A  message  to  the  world  that  rings: 
"Behold,  the  evening  of  the  Kings!" 

From  far  and  near  across  the  maze 

Of  Europe's  battered,  crimson  plains, 
Where  ruthless  devastation  lays 

Its  hold,  and  endless  horror  reigns; 
From  up  and  down  the  mountain  slopes 

Where  death  and  famine  rise  enshrined, 
Resentment  grows  with  shattered  hopes 

And  murmurs  voice  the  common  mind- 
A  voice  this  signal  omen  brings: 
"This  is  the  evening  of  the  Kings !" 

The  vane  of  fates,  historic  guide, 

Points  out  the  way  of  fallen  stars 
From  dawn  of  kings  to  eventide — 

The  Pharoahs,  Caesars  and  the  Czars. 
The  rest  shall  go.     Fate  but  postpones 

The  verdict  of  the  cosmic  trend; 
And  in  the  wake  of  shattered  thrones, 

Of  Kaisers,  Kings — the  regal  end — 
Shall  follow  Peace  and  better  things: 
"This  is  the  evening  of  the  Kings!" 

15 


'Tis  evening  of  an  ageless  day 

Of  bondage  and  despotic  crime 
That  had  its  birth  back  in  the  gray, 

Cold  morning  of  a  tongueless  Time. 
The  light  of  kingcraft  flickers  low 

Upon  a  world  in  throes  of  pain — 
A  world  about  to  overthrow 

The  keepers  of  the  Curse  of  Cain, 
While  Demos  forth  its  challenge  flings: 
"This  is  the  evening  of  the  Kings!" 


16 


THEY  CALL  IT  "PREPAREDNESS" 

After  these  months  of  battle — 

An  age  of  gruesome  strife, 
With  an  endless  flood  of  human  blood 

Spilled  from  the  fount  of  life; 
An  age  of  dull  death-rattle, 

Of  carnage  on   review, 
Of  the  blinding  tide  of  fratricide — 

What  are  we  asked  to  do? 
Prepare  ourselves  for  slaughter — 

Into  the  gory  swim! 
Follow  the  trail  of  war's  travail 

And  reap  the  harvest  grim. 
Now  that  the  nations  totter, 

Plunge  in  the  crimson  bath, 
And  consecrate  our  souls  to  hate 

Here  in  a  reign  of  wrath! 
After  these  months  of  madness, 

Crazed  by  the  murder  spell, 
With  the  countless  troops  of  frenzied  dupes 

Storming  the  gates  of  hell; 
After  these  months  of  sadness— 

Horrors  ever  anew, 
Of  anguish,  fears  and  war-wrung  tears — 

What  would  they  have  us  do? 
Arm  like  the  yonder  legions, 

Line  up  in  wolfish  packs, 
Until  we  feel  the  Iron  Heel 

Implanted  on  our  backs! 
Call  on  the  nether   regions, 

Fume  with   a   devil's   breath, 
Hurrah  and  shout,  then  gallop  out 

Into  the  whirl  of  death! 

17 


WHAT  IS  WAR— AND  WHY? 

What  monster  is  this  ghastly  thing  called  War, 
That  reeks  so  with  the  stench  of  rotting  gore; 
That  subsists  on  the  toll  of  lives  and  pain, 
Claiming  alike  the  dead  and  those  not  slain 
In  body?     Widows  left  in  mateless  stress, 
More  orphans  suffered  to  be  fatherless! 
Youthful  sons,  some  but  infants  yet,  it  seems — 
Just  late,  fond  mothers  rocked  them  into  dreams — 
Are  from  the  family  hearth  decoyed  away, 
The  lover  torn  from  clinging  fiancee, 
To  kill,  to  burn,  destroy  and  terrify, 
To  bear,  to  bleed,  to  wither  and  to  die. 

Why  should  men  with  brain  and  minds  that  reason 
Commit  the  crime  of  fraternal  treason 
Against  the  human  race,  their  fellow-man 
And  brothers,  be  they  of  whatever  clan? 
Why   should    thinking   men,    armed   with   piercing 

steel, 

Murderous  guns  and  implements  that  deal 
In  tragic  death,  combat  their  fellow-kind 
With  scarce  a  whit  of  cause  that  one  can  find  ? 

O  why  do  men  be  made  to  bear  this  curse 
That's  been  defined  as  depths  of  Hell,  and  worse? 
Why  are  men  subjected  to  the  torment 
Of  agonies  no  devil  could  invent? — 
The  rapid  forward  charge,  row  after  row 
Of  men  against  a  waiting,  hidden  foe, 
In  solid  lines  that  form  a  stately  wall, 
Which  soon  will  turn  into  a  deadly  sprawl; 
The  shrieking  shells  that  tunnel  through  the  flesh 
And  make  of  men  a  gruesome  human  mesh. 
18 


The  pangs  of  wounds  and  hurts  on  sun-scorched 

field, 

Without  a  helping  hand  or  shade  to  shield 
The  injuries  from  chafing  air  and  heat, 
The  pains  that  grip  and  slow  the  heart's  weak  beat; 
Mixed  weird,  uncanny  sounds  that  fill  the  air, 
Hoarse  commands,   curses,  pray'rs  and  thund'rous 

blare, 

The  moans  and  groans  of  comrades  dying  near, 
Exploding  shells  and  shot  that  split  the  ear, 
The  bigger  guns  that  boom  with  deeper  notes, 
The  almost  human  squeal  from  horses'  throats; 
A  burning  thirst  that  dry  canteens  won't  quench, 
The  noxious  pools  of  gore  and  bloody  stench; 
The  sight  of  distant  specks  that  dot  the  sky, 
Grim  vulture  birds  and  buzzards  soaring  high, 
And  waiting  in  their  hunger  to  descend 
When  ebbing  life  below  has  reached  its  end. 
The  train  of  mad,  distracting  thoughts  that  roam 
Back  to  a  far-off  sad  and  hapless  home, 
Which  soon  will  mourn  the  fate  of  one  held  dear — 
Yes,  soon,  a  mangled  corpse  on  soldier's  bier! 
A  vision  of  a  wife  and  babes  forlorn 
And  of  the  weary  struggles  they  have  borne; 
Alas,  and  of  the  future  dark  and  bleak 
Confronting  them — so  helpless  and  so  weak! 
Or  of  a  mother  worn  for  want  of  rest, 
The  mother's  heart  repining  in  her  breast — 
O  why  should  war  feed  on  her  progeny? 
Perchance  a  waiting  sweetheart  it  may  be 
Sometimes  that  claims  the  dying  soldier's  thought — 
A  sweetheart  whose  long  wait  will  be  for  naught! 
At  last,  unto  the  fever  raging  brain, 
And  to  the  broken  body  rent  with  pain, 

19 


The  forms  of  cool  and  soothing  shadows  creep; 
There  comes  relief  in  kind  eternal  sleep, 
And  there  remains  the  mutilated  clay 
That  war  has  added  to  its  host  of  prey! 

What  hypocrisy  is  this  talk  we  hear — 

To  "civilize  warfare?"     How  insincere! 

What  distorted,  wretched  minds  must  these  be 

That  foster  such  a  wilful  falsity? 

A  wicked  subterfuge  to  hide  the  crime 

Of  heartless  ruling  masters,  who  since  time 

Immemorial   have   forced   into   battle 

Their  lowly  subjects  to  be  slain  like  cattle, 

While  they,  shrewd  masters,  have  enjoyed  the  fruit 

Of    "Victories"   too   costly   to    compute! 

But  worse  is  the  hypocrite,  Devil  priced, 

Who   would    "Christianize   warfare" — damned   by 

Christ! 

Than  this  no  turpitude  more  deeply  vile 
Was  e'er  by  man  committed  to  defile 
That  Character  of  Centuries,  who  bade  cease 
The  wanton  strife  of  man — the  Prince  of  Peace. 
Oh,  prelate,  preacher,  priest,  admit  your  shame, 
Separate  the  term  of  "War"  from  His  name; 
Forswear  your  platitudes  of  martial  speech, 
Make    peace    your    aim — and    practise    what    you 

preach. 

Rise  against  this  vicious  sham,  vain  pretense, 
Exert  a  more  ennobling  influence, 
And  let  there  be  no  battle,  foul  affair, 
Sanctified  by  a  chaplain's  profane  pray'r. 


20 


War  proves  no  truth  or  serves  no  rightful  end, 

It  has  no  ethics,  morals  to  defend; 

The  weak  it  cruelly  crushes,  right  or  wrong, 

Corrupts  the  vital  power  of  the  strong; 

Its  manner  is  of  darkness,  not  of  light, 

The  only  right  it  knows  is  right  of  Might. 

Its  watchword  is  destruction;  pitiless, 

It  leaves  a  ghastly  record  of  distress. 

The  depths  to  which  it  sinks  is  Hell's  abyss — 

Oh  why  should  men  engage  in  such  as  this? 


21 


A  PHILANTHROPIST 

As  others  see  him 

He  gives  to  causes  far  and  wide — 
And  does  it  all  with  solemn  pride; 
He  gives  alike  to  men  and  God, 
To  weary  widows   (grass  and  sod), 
To  nameless  orphans  on  the  street, 
Whose  mothers  fell  from  ways  discreet 
While  children,  toiling  in  his  shop 
For  meager  wage — a  wretched  sop. 
He  gives  all  o'er  this  sphere  terrene 
From  Kokomo  to  Palestine. 

He  gives  to  Science,  Church  and  Art 
With  holy  ardor,  all  his  heart — 
A  fund  for  vivisecting  dogs, 
Still  more  for  vaccinating  hogs; 
An  organ  for  a  church  in  Rome, 
A  gold  communion  set  for  Nome. 
He  gives  the  public  rare  antiques, 
Old  mummies,  relics — ancient  freaks, 
And  priceless  paintings,  not  a  few. 
(Some  clever  pseudo-Masters,  too!) 

He  gives — his  statements  testify; 
But  what,  we  ask,  wherefore  and  why? 
He  gives  his  surplus  princely  spoil — 
The  golden  fruits  of  others'  toil, 
The  misappropriated  wage 
From  labor's  lowly  peonage. 
He  gives,  forsooth,  to  circumvent 
A  rising  hostile  sentiment; 
To  leave  a  monumental  name — 
Built  on  the  sands  of  unearned  fame. 
22 


THE  "REFORMER" 

He  finds  this  world  a  crooked  sphere, 
A  place  o'erbearingly  austere. 
Corruption   stalks  on   every  hand, 
Officials  wink  at  contraband, 
And  share  the  profits,  steeped  in  grime — 
Also  the  odor  of  the  crime! 
He's  highly  shocked,  he  is,  to  see 
The  ravages  of  poverty, 
And  prostitution's  hopeless  wail 
Bespeaks  to  him  a  sordid  tale, 
As  souls  drift  down  the  crimson  stream, 
The  product  of  a  brutal  scheme — 
The   System ! 

He  seeks  to  set  the  world  aright, 
To  resurrect  it  from  its  plight. 
He  plans  to  stir  things  fore  and  aft, 
To  stay  the  hand  that  takes  the  graft, 
Uplift  the  mob  to  heights  sublime 
And  put  a  crimp  in  boundless  crime. 
He  starts  at  once,  by  sage  advice, 
To  free  the  slums  from  rooted  vice; 
To  preach  an  ancient,  dying  creed 
To   creatures  gripped  in  crying  need, 
And  surface  matters  rearrange, 
But  not  by  any  means  to  change 
The   System ! 


It  is,  you  know,  consistency 
To  kill  the   fruit  but  spare  the  tree, 
To  blame  the  egg  the  goose  has  laid, 
When  he  "reforms"  in  masquerade. 
It  is   a  fact   beyond  dispute, 
The  tree  has  borne  much  juicy  fruit, 
Rich  golden  eggs  the  goose  has  laid — 
For  those  who  hold  the  tools  of  trade; 
So,    disregarding   nature's   laws, 
He  fights  effects  and  shuns  the  cause; 
He  seeks  to  change  what  Greed  has  wrought 
(To  ease  his  conscience  some),  but  not 
The    System ! 


24 


THE  POLITICIAN 

And  They  Fall  for  Him 

A  paradox,  indeed,  is  he, 
This  superman  of  destiny, 
With  silver  tongue  and  crafty  brain, 
Exhaustless  wind  and  natures  twain, 
One  for  the  good  old  fall  campaign 
When,  with  his  kind,  he  stumps  the  land, 
And  heartily  he  shakes  the  hand — 
The  horny  hand  that  casts  the  vote ! 
He  lauds  us,  too,  this  man  of  note, 
And  meets  us  then  in  every  way 
As  if  he  were  of  common  clay. 

But  when  he  wins  the  goal,  alas! 

Another  nature  comes  to  pass, 

Much  like  the  stunt  of  Jekyll-Hyde, 

He  assumes  now  the  "statesman's"  side — 

Imposing,  highbrow,  dignified! 

No  more  do  we  engage  his  thought; 

Our  pleas  from  home  now  count  for  naught, 

For  in  the  legislative  halls 

He  fails  to  heed  our  plaintive  calls, 

Unless,  perchance,  he  might  concede 

A  quantity  of  useless  seed. 


He  wins  the  money  sharks'  applause 
By  forging  loopholes  in  the  laws, 
That  Special  Interests  might  succeed 
In  furthering  their  schemes  of  greed 
While  millions  are  in  woeful  need. 
Then  promptly  with  the  next  campaign 
Returns  this  man  with  natures  twain 
To  tell  us  folks  how  great  must  be 
The  state  of   our  prosperity; 
And  to  the  doubting  Thomases 
Repeats  his  timeworn  promises! 


THE  PRINCE  OF  PROFITEERS 

He  stands  divorced  from  human  life  and  love, 
This  ghoul-like  imitation  of  a  man — 
A  thing  that  plots  and  schemes,  but  does  not  feel 
The  warm  emotions  of  a  living  heart. 

From  out  the  cold  vaults  of  his  beady  orbs 
There  glints  the  soulless  glare  of  money  lust — 
A  cruel,   repulsive   look,   inhuman   gaze, 
That  chills  the  red  blood  pulsing  in  our  veins; 
A  sight,   forsooth,  that  weirdly  horrifies 
The  being  with  a  heart-throb  for  his  kind. 

His  grasping,  weazened  countenance  is  such 
That  it  reflects  the  baseness  of  his  deeds, 
And   typifies  the  ardor  of  the  chase 
In  gathering  the  fruits  of  others'  toil; 
In  conjuring  with  a  most  magic  wand 
The  flesh  of  men  and  women  into  gold, 
The  blood  and  tears  of  children  into  gain; 
In  ravishing  the  life-bloom  of  the  young, 
In  draining  out  the  vital  force  of  all, 
E'en  strangling  the  infant  in  the  womb. 

The  genius  of  the  System's  tragic  reign 
At  the  Nineteen-hundredth  milestone  of  Christ, 
As  time  is  measured  in  this  "Christian"  era, 
He  conquers  in  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
O'erriding  all  humanity  with  force, 
Subduing  it  to  Mammon  and  to  Greed. 
Bulwarked  in  the  battlements  of  Privilege, 
He  fortifies  himself  with  every  power 
That  purchasable  minions  can  devise, 

27 


That  prostituted  talents  can  invent. 
Throughout  the  land  we  feel  his  influence; 
We  see  his  vassals  formulate  the  laws, 
Designed  to  make  his  conquest  more  complete, 
To  subjugate  the  masses  for  the  grind. 
We  find  his  wretched  harlots  on  the  bench, 
And  hear  his  word  proclaimed  in  many  courts 
Where  Justice  never  dares  to  enter  in. 
We  find  his  earmarks  in  the  slimy  press 
That  oozes  subtle  poison  through  its  lines, 
Producing  mental  morpheus  far  and  wide, 
Betraying  to  the  wolves  the  working  class; 
Leading  to  the  brink  of  doom  those  who  toil. 
We  hear  his  blatant  mouth-piece  in  the  Church 
Indorse  the  rape  by  predatory  wealth, 
And  sanctify  it  in  the  name  of  One 
Who  had  not  where  to  lay  His  weary  head. 
We  see  him,  many  handed,  on  the  deck, 
And  sense  his  ever  presence  on  the  bridge, 
Directing  in  its  course  the  Ship  of  State — 
His  mortgaged  private  graft-protecting  boat. 
We  find  his  hirelings  in  the  underworld, 
The  ever-ready  gunman  and  the  thug, 
Lost  creatures  of  the  reeking  social  sink — 
The  product  of  the  System  he  promotes. 
We  see  his  kindred  on  the  upper  crust 
Of  that  useless  stratum  termed  Society — 
The  satiated   parasites  who  prey 
Upon  the  plundered  workers  of  the  world. 


28 


Dedicated  to  those  newspapers  everywhere  which, 
by  various  high-sounding  slogans,  proclaim  their 
fidelity  to  the  interests  of  ALL  the  people,  ALL 
the  time — not  recognizing,  of  course,  any  basic 
conflict  of  interest. 

It   was   conceived   in   the   court  of   some  mythical 

realm, 

Far  and  away  from  this  turbulent  sphere, 
Where  the  classes  and  masses  (those  indolent  asses) 

Fight  and  combat  over  issues  so  clear. 
Regardless  of  those  who  may  think  it  a  jest, 

This  wonderful  slogan  it  ever  obeys, 
And  no  matter  who's  wrong  when  its  time  to  pro- 
test, 

It's  IN  THE  INTEREST  OF  ALL,  now  and 
—ALWAYS ! 

When  the  two  sides  are  arrayed  in  industrial  af- 
fray, 

And  labor  contends  for  the  substance  it  lacks; 
When  some  brute  of  a  Plute  hires  gunmen  to  shoot 

The  toil-bent  workers  right  down  in  their  tracks; 
Then  this  fatuous  figure  of  moral  sterility, 

Seeing  the  status  of  master  and  thrall, 
Raves  in  the  plieht  of  its  dual-fidelity, 

And  fiVhts  on  both  sides  IN  THE  INTEREST 
OF  ALL! 


29 


When  the  masses  strike  blindly  at  chains  of  tradi- 
tion, 

And  strive  for  the  dawn  of  a  happier  day; 
When   the  sources   and   forces  of   Greed,   and   re- 
sources 

Of  exploiting  wealth  all  stand  in  their  way; 
Then  this  asinine  organ  of  meaningless  babble 

Says,  in  effect,  to  the  people  who  slave: 
"Yours  is  the  fate  of  the  unfortunate  rabble; 

Remain  in  your  menial  place  and  behave." 


30 


THE  BOYS 

The  magnanimous  spirit  of  Poe  will  condone  the 
liberty  here  taken 

Hear  the  voices  of  the  boys — 

Happy  boys! 

What  a  world  of  gladness  and  exhilarating  noise! 
How  they  riot,  riot,  riot, 

From  the  morning  to  the  night; 
Oh,  that  older  folks  would  try  it; 
Stir  themselves  and  profit  by  it — 
With  that  juvenile  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  strange  and  startling  rhyme, 
To  the  bubbling  and  the  boiling  of  the  effervescing 

joys 

Of  the  boys,  boys,  boys, 
Boys,  boys,  boys — 
To  the  ramping  and  the  stamping  of  the  boys! 

See  the  gallant,  gladsome  boys, 

-    Outdoor  boys! 
What  a  world  of  worthy  pride  their  manliness  en- 


joys 


In  the  bracing  open  air, 
With  a  will  to  do  and  dare — 

Like  the  valiant  knights  of  old — 

When  in  the  right; 
They  proclaim,  in  accents  bold, 
By  their  mien,  their  manly  mold — 

A  splendid  sight. 
Oh,  what  deep  and  hearty  joys 
On  the  interesting  jaunts  with  capable  convoys! 

31 


Food  that  cloys 
And  destroys 

Weaker  stomachs,  ne'er  annoys — • 
Nor  their  happiness  alloys — 
But  proves  the  wealth  of  robust  health 
Of  the  boys,  boys,  boys, 

Of  the  boys,  boys,  boys,  boys, 
Boys,  boys,  boys — 
Proves  how  eager,  full  of  vigor,  are  the  boys ! 

But  those  pallid  factory  boys — 

Hapless  boys! 

What  a  world  of  sadness  and  excruciating  noise! 
How  they  toil  in  tender  years, 
Leaving  trails  of  sweat  and  tears, 
Mid  the  turmoil  and  the  din. 
Too  much  handicapped  to  win 

Anything 

That   in   crude   Civilization's  estimation   is  por- 
trayed 

As  the  element  of   Success    (thus  accomplishments 
are  weighed) ; 

And  though  their  souls  may  leap  higher 
With  a  desperate  desire 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
To  do  better,  seldom  ever 
Will  their  weary  bodies  respond. 
Oh,   these  boys,  boys,  boys, 
To  the  end  each  one  enjoys 

Scarce  a  hope! 

How  they  strive  in  mill  and  mine, 
For  the  greed  of  Mammon's  Shrine, 
On  arduous  tasks  with  which  they  cannot  cope! 
Yet  this  day  we  fully  know, 

32 


By  the  sighing 
And  the  dying, 
How  the  dangers  ever  flow; 
How  this  Juggernaut  destroys 
In  the  winding 
And  the  grinding 
Which  it  ruthlessly  employs, 

For   the   sordid   profit   in   the   exploitation   of   the 
boys, 

Of  the  boys! 
O  these  boys,  boys,  boys,  boys, 

Boys,  boys,  boys, 
Hasten  ye   Emancipation  of  these  boys! 


33 


TO  OLD  JOHN  GUTENBERG 

If  I  could  write  an  ode  to  him 

Who  sowed  the  potent  seed  of  print, 
I'd  satisfy  a  cherished  whim 

And  sing  him  praises  without  stint. 
He  started,  in  his  humble  way, 

A  ball  arolling  down  through  time 
That  spreads  the  message  every  day 

And  aids  the  masses  in  their  climb. 
From  out  the  depths  of  blank  intent 

They've  slowly  plodded  up  the  heights, 
More  knowledge  gained  with  each  ascent, 

Advancing  to  their  destined  rights, 
Mind-hungry,  and  with  halting  speech, 

The  blast  was  blown  and  they  have  heard 
The  only  sound  with  endless  reach — 

The  Message  of  the  Printed  Word! 
Come,   toilers  of   the  lowly  birth, 

Compel  the  drones  to  abdicate, 
Assume  possession  of  the  earth, 

Enjoy  the  wealth  which  you  create. 
Of  all  the  means  beneath  the  sun, 

Of  all  the  power  man  possess, 
To  see  the  cause  of  justice  won, 

The  greatest  is  the  Labor  Press. 
So  I  salute  the  master  brain 

That  saw  a  vision  through  the  gloom, 
Ordained  to  lift  the  crushing  bane 

From  Labor  in  its  living  tomb. 
A  genius  of  the  rarest  stripe 

Was  to  posterity  unfurled, 
When  Gutenberg  produced  the  type 

To   revolutionize   the  world! 

34 


OUR  NAMELESS  HEROES 

*. 

On   the    Two   Hundred  and  Fiftieth   Anniversary 
Celebration   of  Newark,  N.  J .,    1666-1916 

I  sing  not  of  the  honored  names  so  favored  with 

acclaim, 
But  pay  my  humble  tribute  to  the  heroes  without 

fame. 
The  plain   and   unassuming   folk   who  shared   the 

burdened  life 

Amid  the  virgin  wilderness  and  elemental  strife; 
The  pioneers  who  felled  the  trees  and  tilled   the 

broken  soil, 
And  paved  the  way  for  future  growth  by  hardship, 

pain  and  toil! 
My  homage  goes  to  such  as  these,  unhonored  and 

unsung, 
Who  made  the  primal  sacrifice  when  Newark's  days 

were  young. 

I  speak  a  friendly  word  for  them  whose  labors  are 

unknown, 
Whom    fickle   fame   has   never   kindly   recognition 

shown ; 
The  rank  and  file  of  sturdy  men,  and  women  by 

their  side, 
Who  braved  the  hidden  dangers  here  as  settlers  to 

abide ; 
The  strugglers  of  the  early  years  'who  broke  the 

rugged  ground 
And  passed  from  spheres  of  usefulness  to  graves  all 

unrenowned. 


35 


To  these  forgotten,  nameless  ones,  and  those  who 

followed  them, 
Into  the  Great  Obscurity,  I  sing  this  requiem ! 

And  so  on  down  the  steady  line  since  that  eventful 
morn, 

When  out  of  human  labor  pains  our  civic  life  was 
born, 

I  hail  the  toilers  in  the  fields  and  at  the  handy 
trades, 

And  those  who've  done  the  drudgery  that  custom 
says  degrades; 

The  workers  of  the  stoic  strain  who  bore  the  great- 
est load, 

Who  kept  the  wheels  of  progress  rolling  o'er  the 
time-marked  road; 

The  builders  of  a  sturdy  past  that  stood  for  future 
fame, 

The  men  who  gave  their  sweated  flesh  and  died  ob- 
scure in  name. 

A  bitter  foe  of  every  war  to  conquer  or  despoil, 
A  hater  of  the  heartless  fiend  who  would  the  world 

embroil, 
I   lay.  a   fitting   laurel   wreath   upon   the   common 

grave — 
On  Mother  Earth — in  recognition  of  the  nameless 

brave 
Who  fought  on  bloody  battlefields  to  set  a  people 

free, 
And  gave  their  lives  to  move  the  cause  of  human 

liberty. 
Custom  lauds  the  honored  names.     I  eulogize  no 

less 

36 


The  heroes  who  so  coldly  rest  in  blank  forgotten- 
ness. 

I  pay  a  solemn  tribute  to  the  hero  host  unnamed, 
The    army    of    constructiveness    that    industry    has 

claimed ; 
The  soldiers  of  production  in  the  factory,  shop  and 

mill, 
Whose  workmanship  has  made  the  name  of  Newark 

speak  their  skill. 
To  the  victims  and  the  martyrs,  I  add  my  special 

meed — 
To  those  who  have  been  sacrificed  for  avarice  and 

greed — 
The  children,  men,  and  women  who  have  perished 

at  their  work, 
And  the  toilers  who've  been  stricken  in  holocausts 

or  murk. 

Let    none    forget    the    commonplace — the    widows 

worn  with  care, 
Who've   battled   singlehanded  with   the   demon  of 

despair; 
The-  orphans  and  the  helpless  ones  who've  braved 

the  ways  unknown 
And   faced   the  struggles  of   the  world,   unguided 

and  alone. 
Let's  not  forget  the  multitude  that  suffered  through 

the  years, 
Whose  nights  of  silent  anguish  have  been  bathed  in 

bitter  tears — 
Heroic  souls  of  motherhood  whose  love  has  lit  the 

way 
In  treading  the  unbeaten  paths  to  seek  the  Better 

Day. 

37 


I  find  a  word  of  favor  for  the  heroes  seldom 
named — 

The  firemen  who  risk  their  lives  in  danger-traps 
enflamed ; 

The  officers,  on  busy  streets  where  traffic  most  con- 
gests, 

Whose  deeds  in  face  of  jeopardy  their  bravery  at- 
tests. 

So,  come,  salute  the  legions  here,  and  those  of  other 
days, 

Who've  added  to  our  wide  renown  and  reaped  no 
words  of  praise; 

And  let  us,  as  an  echo  of  this  late  Historic  Fete, 

Give  honor  to  the  Nameless  Heroes  ere  it  is  too 
late!  - 


JINGLES  OF  THE  U.  S.  JUNGLE 

In  the  wild  and  woolly  woodlands 

(Such  wood  as  grows  on  manly  shoulders), 
In  the  fruitful  U.  S.  goodlands, 

Free  from  barrenness  and  boulders, 
Rule  the  tribal   chiefs,   undaunted, 
A  high  cabal, 
Old  Nick,  et  al, 
By  no  ghosts  of  sorrow  haunted, 
For  the  woodmen  duly  noted 
By  the  way  they  aptly  voted, 
That   they   are   keen 
For  the  Machine, 

That  they  love  its  noise  and  thunder, 
And  its  splendor — 
Graft  defender — 
And  the  way  it  plucks  the  plunder! 

The  rival  chieftains  and  their  forces 

Of   election    cannonaders, 
Backed  by  wampum  and  resources 

From  the  great  Moguls  and  Traders 
Made  big  noise  with  drums  and  mouth-talk, 

Filled  the  air  with  verbal  fire, 
Called  each  other  cunning  thief-hawk, 

Proved  each  other  goodly  liar — 
Thus  we  heard  much  truthful  gab-fest 
In  the  heat  of  job-hunt  contest — 
Free  from  cheaters, 
Sans  repeaters; 

Each  man  voted  as  he  oughter — 
And  not  gratis, 
Of  course,  that  is 
The  braves,  they  got  their  fire  water. 

39 


Now,  alas,  the  fight  is  over! 

Some  are  vanquished,  some  have  won, 
Some  will  thrive  and  live  in  clover, 

And  some  now  see  their  setting  sun. 
But  glory  be!  there  is  one  blessing, 

From  out  the  muss  there  stands  serene, 
Its  well-earned  boodle-bags  caressing, 

The  System's  double-geared  Machine — 
The  product  of  an  artisan, 
Most  thoroughly  bipartisan; 
Designed  to  fill 
A  useful  bill, 

By  running  puppets  and  campaigns; 
By  kidding  on 
The  folks  with  con, 
And  helping  chloroform  their  brains! 


40 


BLACK  BEAUTY'S   RETURN 

She  saw  the  motor  wagons  racing 

Like  phantoms  on  the  city  street, 
Most  all  her  fellow-kind  replacing — 

Her  type  was  growing  obsolete! 
But  thus  were  many  burdens  banished; 

The  horse  was  spared  a  labored  life 
And,  so,  much  wretchedness  had  vanished 

From  here  within  it  once  was  rife. 

Mere  dogs  were  groomed  and  well  attended, 

Perfumed  and  powdered,  had  their  beds, 
And  worthy  ladies  condescended 

To  sleep  with  feline  thoroughbreds. 
She  saw  the  passing  patronesses 

Of  life's  vain  glories  and  regrets 
Confer  their  passionate  caresses 

Upon  their  bored  and  pampered  pets. 

But  she  marvelled  at  the  fearful  fate 

Allotted  to  the  babes  of  man; 
Though  environed  in  the  richest  state, 

They  suffered  ere  their  lives  began, 
Mid  the  superwealth  of  Mammon's  reign, 

She  heard  the  helpless  hunger-cry; 
She  beheld  the  little  lives  in  pain 

And  saw  the  famished  infants  die. 

Against  hopeless  odds  the  children  fight 
When  gathered  in  the  labor  marts, 

There  she  saw  their  childhood  filled  with 

blight 
By  cradle  thieves  with  blackened  hearts. 

41 


Here  and  now  they  toil  their  lives  away, 
Denied  the  least  of  human  rights, 

That  the  favored  few  and  mighty  may 
Exist  as  worthless  parasites. 

L'ENVOI 

True,   she   only   saw   these   things   through 
me — 

Communing  like,  while  in  a  dream; 
But  Black  Beauty's  heart,  you  will  agree, 

Would  linger  on  this  burning  theme! 


42 


COMING  INTO  HER  OWN 

Down  through  the  centuries,  weary  and  worn, 
The  She-slave  of  man,  the  butt  of  his  scorn, 
Woman  has  struggled  on  under  the  load, 
The  sum  of  her  burdens  long  overflowed. 
Drudge  at  a  thousand  and  one  lowly  tasks, 
The  injustice  of  which  Progress  unmasks; 
Bound  up  in  ceaseless,   monotonous  toil, 
Hoeing  and  digging  and  tilling  the  soil, 
Watching  the  larder  and  keeping  it  full, 
Shearing  and  spinning  and  weaving  the  wool, 
Attending  the  warriors  (wretchedly  scarred), 
Shaping  and  baking  the  pottery  hard, 
Bearing  and  bringing  up  children  galore — 
Guiltless   of   neo-Malthusian   lore. 
Ever   fulfilling  his  lordship's  commands, 
Thus  she  has  been  like  a  pawn  in  his  hands, 
A  creature  to  toil  and  kindle  his  fires, 
A  female  to  serve  his  lustful  desires! 

Though  she's  advancing,  expressing  her  will, 
Traditions  of  ages  hamper  her  still — 
Traditions  of  history's  primitive  cast 
Relics  brought  down  from  a  hard-dying  past. 
Strewn  in  her  path  are  obstructions  of  old, 
Tyrannous  laws  of  medieval  mold, 
Ancient  conventions  that  sprung  from  the  date 
When  man  was  Master  instead  of  a  Mate. 
Woven  around  her  are  numberless  checks — 
Bonds  of  oppression  she  gradually  wrecks! 


43 


Not  long  was  the  time  when  woman's  one  right- 
Conceded  by  grace  of  masculine  might, 
Acknowledged  by  man,  her  jury  and  judge — 
Lay  in  the  sphere  of  the  all-around  drudge. 
To  her  were  denied  the  right  to  own  land, 
The  ways  and  the  means  to  grow  and  expand, 
The  chance  to  take  a  significant  part 
In  the  fields  of  letters,  science  and  art, 
The  chance  to  employ  her  creative  brain 
In  the  pursuits  for  humanity's  gain. 

But,  lo,  on  ahead  we  see  the  new  dawn, 
Undimmed  by  the  evils  of  days  that  are  gone, 
Free  from  the  wrongs  of  a  tyrannous  past — 
Visions  of  Liberty  coming  at  last! 
Ever  we  see  her  ascending  the  heights, 
Forcing  the  battle,  demanding  her  rights, 
Faster  and   farther  she's  forging   ahead, 
While  new-opened  paths  are  feeling  her  tread. 
Progress  now  heralds  her  wakening  mind, 
The  force  of  reaction  struggles  behind, 
Reaping  the  harvest  of  woe  it  has  sown — 
As  woman  comes  onward  into  her  own! 


44 


THE  BLACK  FLAG  OF  CAPITALISM 

It  floats  o'er  mighty  nations  that  are  scattered  round 

the  earth, 
And  the  depth  of  its  blackness  is  the  measure  of 

their  worth, 
For  it  represents  a  system  whose  concern  for  human 

weal 
Is  buried  in  the  background  of  its  predatory  zeal. 

Its  motto  is  MORE  PROFITS  in  whatever  land 
it  flies, 

Waving  challenges  to  freedom  and  defiance  to  the 
skies. 

Its  Deity  is  Mammon  of  the  Pirate  Temple — Gain, 

Whose  gilded  halls  are  wailing  with  the  death- 
moans  of  the  slain. 

Its  sentiment's  reflected  in  the  color  of  its  folds, 
Which   typifies  the  "honor"  of   the  system  it  up- 
holds— 

Whose  record  of  achievement  is  a  homicidal  blot, 
And  its  boasted  wheels  of  progress  a  bloody  Jugger- 
naut. 

We  see  its  raven  shadows  fill  the  day  with  wretched 

blight, 
And  with  merciless  abandon  adding  terror  to  the 

night — 

An  emblem  of  disaster  for  the  toilers  of  the  world, 
Whose  portion  is  subjection  while  this  standard  is 

unfurled ! 


45 


It  is  greeted  by  the  masters  with  vigor  and  acclaim, 
Saluted  and  applauded,  and  to  consecrate  its  fame, 
They  label  it  "defender  of  the  family  and  the 

home," 

And   for   nationalistic   purposes   they   dye   it  poly- 
chrome. 


THE  DEADLY  PARALLEL 


I  am  the  Deadly  Paral- 

lei, 

The   paradox   of   his- 
tory; 
The  ages  past  have  felt 

my  spell 
And    called    it    all    a 

mystery. 
I've     traveled     onward 

down  the  years, 
Collecting  trophies  ev- 
erywhere, 
All  christened  in  a  flood 

of  tears 

And  dedicated  to  de- 
spair. 

I  am  the  source  of  ruth- 
less war, 
The  cause  of  countless 

numbers  slain; 
I've  bathed  the  earth  in 

human  gore, 
And   damned   it  with 
the  curse  of  Cain. 
I  am  the  king  of  fratri- 
cide, 
The  monarch   of   the 

martial  brood; 
At    my    command    have 

millions  died 
As    patriotic    cannon 
food. 


I  know  not  either  sex  or 

age, 
And  care  not  for  the 

helpless  cry 

Of  infants,  or  the  herit- 
age 

Of  hopelessness  I  ty- 
pify. 
I  gloat  with  pleasurable 

pride 
Upon  the  children  in 

the  land, 
Whose  tender  lives  are 

crucified 

To  meet  the  strain  of 
my  demand. 

I  glory  in  my  heartless- 
ness, 
Nor      recognize      the 

right  of  Right; 
I  boast  that  I  am  piti- 
less, 
And  rule  by  virtue  of 

my  Might. 

My  ethics  are  the  rank- 
est rot 

That      mortal      man 
could     e'er     be- 
hold— 
A  lying  moral  code  that's 

taught 

To    keep    the    sheep 
within  the  fold. 


47 


To   all   that's   best   for 
man  I'm  blind — 
I    am    a    thing    that 
blights  and  kills; 
I  am  the  scourge  of  hu- 
man kind, 
The    fountainhead   of 

endless  ills. 
I  propagate  discord  and 

hate 
To  satisfy   a  fiendish 

mirth, 
And  hasten  to  a  fearful 

fate 

The  lowly  workers  of 
the  earth. 


I  have  my  paid  defend- 
ers who 
Condone      my      gross 

atrocities ; 
A  most  efficient,  faithful 

crew 
Of   poisoned-p  e  n  c  i  1 

Pharisees. 
I   parallel  the   deeds  of 

Hell; 

I  am  the  God  tyranni- 
cal— 

When  analyzed,   I  sim- 
ply spell 

The  reign  of  Private 
Capital. 


FLITTING   FANCIES 


COLOR  SONG:  GREEN 

Ask  the  emerald  who  I  am, 
Ask  the  weed  from  out  the  sea; 

Gaze    at    nature's   vivid    gown, 
All   bedecked   in   verdancy. 

Ask  the  essence  of  the  mint, 
Look   the   feline   in   the   eye; 

Ask  the  fourth   resplendent  hue 
Of  the  rainbow  in  the  sky. 

Beg  the  parrot  spread   its  wings, 

Ask   the    pretty   peridot, 
Ask  the  cedar  and  the  fir 

In  the  Northern  ice  and  snow. 

Ask  the  bank  note,  crisp  and  long, 
Ere  it  travels  on  its  way; 

Ask  the  fated  gaming  cloth, 

Where  the  fools  of  fortune  play. 

Ask  of  Erin's  verdant  Isle 

My  most  sacred  name  to  tell; 

Ask  the  olive-branch  of  Heaven, 
Ask  the  jealous  rage  of  Hell. 


LOVE 

A  subtle  dart 

From  Cupid's  bow 
And,  lo,  the  heart 

Receives  a  blow! 

It  comes  to  last 
We  cannot  say 

How  long,  steadfast, 
To  hold  its  sway. 

For  life,  a  year, 

Or  just  a  day, 
It  may  adhere 

Then  break  away. 

A  fickle  thing! — 

That  much  we  know 
So  wont  to  bring 

Us  joy  or  woe. 

But  come  it  may 
To  curse  or  bless, 

We  only  weigh 
Its  joyousness! 


THE  PRIMAL  CALL 

I  saw  her  there  in  Love's  Retreat, 
The  fairest  maid,  so  wondrous,  sweet, 
Demure  and,  so  I  thought,  discreet; 
For  as  I  gazed  she  seemed  to  be 
Aware  of  my  propinquity, 
And  bore  herself  with  faultless  mien, 
While  I  looked  on  with  rapture  keen 
And  weighed  her  charms  as  best  I  could 
From  where  I  hid  in  yonder  wood. 

Her  eyes  were  blue,  her  face  was  fair, 
Radiant  was  her  golden  hair, 
And  ruby  lips  bespoke  the  wealth 
That  she  possessed  in  sterling  health. 
Her  chiselled  throat,  by  Venus  blessed, 
Rose  from  the  contour  of  her  breast, 
And  then  and  there  did  I  repair 
Forth  to  this  waiting  maiden  rare 
To  ardently  my  love  declare. 

The  Gods,   I   felt,  ordained  that  she 
Should  be  my  own  affinity; 
Should  be  the  object  of  my  heart, 
My  soul's  enamoured  counterpart, 
So   at  this  most  eventful  hour, 
In  nature's  charming,  sylvan  bower, 
My  mind  was  charged  with  latent  power, 
And  I  was  filled  with  longing  for 
Untasted  fruits  Love  held  in  store. 


53 


Now  passion  surged  within  my  veins — 
As  e'er  it  does  with  fervent  swains — 
And  quite  without  formality, 
I  drew  her  form  divine  to  me 
With  all  my  boundless  ardency; 
Discretion  parted  like  the  wind, 
But  thought  I,  "Love  has  never  sinned 
When  bidden,  in  its  passion  pall, 
To  heed  the  urging  Primal  Call." 


54 


WHEN  I  DREAM 

I've  wooed  you  with  an  ardor  born  of  old, 

When  gallant  cavaliers 

Were  lovers  without  peers, 
And  never  was  a  suitor  quite  so  bold. 
Yet,  for  all  my  aptness  on  this  throbbing  theme, 
I've  never  worshipped  you  so  dearly  as  I  do 
When  I  dream. 

I've  loved  you  with  a  passion  like  the  flame; 

Kisses  have  I  laden 

You  with,  little  maiden, 
And  tenderness  I've  shown  you  just  the  same. 
But  despite  my  fervent  actions,  so  extreme, 
I  love  you  many  fold  more  than  e'er  could  be  told, 
When  I  dream. 

I  see  the  rare  sublimities  unfurled, 
Without  the  imprecision 
Conveyed  in  mortal  vision, 
Nor  fettered  by  the  smallness  of  the  world. 
I  enjoy  the  perfect  rapture,  most  supreme, 
And  soar  on  heights  above,  communing  with  your 
love, 

When  I  dream. 


55 


SEPTEMBER  MORNING 

After  Painting  by  Paul  Chabas 
How  happily  I  greet  the  dawn 

Of  this  fair  morn, 
As  to  the  dewy  shore  I'm  drawn 

By  joys  new-born ! 
The  sands  with  every  step  I  take 

My  feet  do  kiss, 
So  in  the  measure  of  my  wake 

There's  naught  but  bliss. 
And  eagerly  I  wade  into 

The  water's  arms — 
Ecstatic  essence  of  the  blue, 

What  wondrous  charms! 
The  circling  ripples  glide  away 

So  gracefully, 
And  yet  I  think  that  while  they  play, 

They  envy  me. 
Clouds  with  silvery  linings  gleam, 

And  understand, 
The  balmy  air  is  like  a  dream 

In  Wonderland. 
The  rising  sun,  it  seems,  approves 

Of  all  below. 
A  gentle  zephyr  barely  moves 

(I  feel  it,  though!). 
The  waters  always  smile  at  me 

On  mornings  fair, 
Although  before,  the  ecstasy 

Was  ne'er  so  rare. 
Reflections  from  the  sky  above 

The  depths  adorn. 
I  love  you  with  a  boundless  love, 

September  Morn! 

56 


THE  ORCHID  OF  NYMPH^EUM 

I  had  quaffed  a  magic  nectar  in  a  wilful,  idle  hour. 
I  then  enjoyed  the  rare  delights,  inspired  by  fan- 
tastic sights, 
In  the  dreamy,  far-off  sanctum  of  a  fairy-haunted 

bower. 
Oh,  the  calm  and  placid  beauty  of  this  place  so 

free  from  duty, 

Where,    light-heartedly,    I   wandered   in    a  wilful, 
idle  hour. 

It  reposed  in  quiet  grandeur  in  a  recess  near  the 

sea; 
And  its  balmy,  sylvan  splendor  made  the  waters 

stern  seem  tender, 

While  the  atmospheric  incense  added  to  the  ecstasy. 
Bathed  by  gushing  springs  and  fountains,  hidden 

from  without  by  mountains, 

Nestled  quaintly,   snugly,   safely,   this   Nymphaeum 
near  the  sea. 

Gorgeous  were  the  nameless  wonders  which  so  capti- 
vated me, 

And  as  I  wandered  thereabout,  disturbed  not  by 
distrust  nor  doubt, 

The  charms  of  this  Elysium  seemed  wrapped  in  rare 

felicity ; 

Until  the  rapture  of  my  soul  'most  broke  the 
bonds  that  bound  it  whole — 

So,  the  wondrous,  mystic  marvels  strongly  fascin- 
ated me! 


57 


All  the  Nymphs  of  fair  creation  had  their  habita- 
tions there; 

The  comely  Dryads  of  the  trees,  graceful  Ner- 
eids of  the  seas — 

And  alluring  Hamadryads  made  of  this  their  com- 
mon lair — 

Winsome    Oreads    of    the    hills,    the    sprightly 
Naiads  of  the  rills; 

All  of  these,  in  matchless  glory,  had  their  habita- 
tions there! 

Ah,  but  these  enchanting  beings  were  so  very  fair 

to  see! 

Yet,  to  my  entreaties,  pleading,  they  were  callous, 
deaf,  unheeding, 

And  displayed,  with  subtle  seeming,  a  marked  an- 
tipathy to  me. 

But  soon  one,  bolder  than  the  rest,  in  answer 
to  a  plea  expressed, 

Handed  me  a  blooming  Orchid  that  was  very  fair 
to  see. 

From  that  Nymphland  I  departed  many,  many  years 

ago, 
With  this  Flower  my  one  treasure,  as  a  source 

of  hope  and  pleasure, 
As  a  balm  of  calm  and  comfort,  as  a  solace  in  my 

sorrow. 
Every  day  and  every  hour,  have  I  treasured  this 

fair  Flower, 
Since  from  Nymphaeum  I  parted  many,  many  years 

ago. 


And  this  Orchid,  never  fading,  still  is  blooming  as 

of  yore! 

Though    all    nature's    rearranging,    things    are 
drooping,  dying,  changing, 

Still  this  fair  and  favored  Flower  blooms,  unblem- 
ished, as  before. 

While  slow  its  full  import  gleaning,  this  to  me 
has  solemn  meaning — 

Meaning  that  its  native  home  is  changeless,  charm- 
ing, as  of  yore! 


59 


PAN 
From  a  Fifth  Avenue  Window 

I  gaze  enwrapped  in  wonder  at  the  sight, 
Concealing  thoughts  of  whimsical  delight; 
Yet  sad,  at  times — this  sadness,  too,  concealed — 
As  I  compare  the  varied  charms  revealed 
Throughout  the  passing  throng,  with  those  of 

yore 

In  native  fields — now  gone  forever  more. 
I  watch  the  beings  as  they  saunter  by; 
They  seem  so  mortal  to  my  spirit  eye — 
The  men  not  like  the  ancient  gods  that  grew, 
The  maidens  so  unlike  the  nymphs  I  knew, 
With  whom  I  shared  the  joys  on  Grecian  hills 
And  waded  in  the  cooling,  shaded  rills. 
The  multitudes — they  seem  so  unconcerned 
About  the  verdant  earth  whose  ways  I  learned, 
So  unresponsive  to  the  things  I  prize 
That  when  a  pair  of  understanding  eyes 
Look  up  to  me,  impassioned  with  their  glow, 
Then  the  Pagan  Spirit  lives,  that  I  know! 


60 


SMILE  AWHILE 

Smile  awhile! 
Not  only  with  the  lips  and  eyes, 

But  with  the  heart  and  soul  and  mind — 

This  rich,  rare  kind 
True  happiness  implies. 

Smile   awhile ! 
Brighten  the  ways  where  you  wander 

With  sunshine  from  your  gifted  store; 

Don't  hoard  it,  or 
Its  potency  you  squander! 


61 


MY  HOSIERY 

The  socks  I  get  from  thee,  dear  heart, 
Are  made,  indeed,  for  churls — not  me. 

Though  the  seams  look  good,  they  rip  apart- 
My  hosiery!     My  hosiery! 

Nor  is  my  taste  for  Alice  blue, 

Cerise  and  color  gaiety, 
But  for  a  quiet  or  somber  hue 

In  hosiery!     My  hosiery! 

I  have  no  use  for  fancy  braid, 

And  polka-dots  are  rot  to  me, 
For  I  only  want  the  plainest  made 

In  hosiery!     My  hosiery! 

I  know  you  do  your  best  to  try 
And  please  the  manly  heart  of  me; 

But,  my  dear,  I  ask,  just  let  me  buy 
My  hosiery!     My  hosiery! 


62 


AMONG  THE  FERVENT  IMMORTALS 

I  had  a  dream  the  other  night, 

Which,   for  lucidity  and  light 

And  wonderful  reality, 

Was  the  strangest  thing  that  could  be. 

I  dreamt  that  my  poor  pent-up  soul 

Had  soared  and  reached  the  Muses'  goal, 

And  my  reward  was  lasting  fame 

At  the  distinguished  writing  game. 

I  dreamt  that  my  ambition  to 
Become  a  writer  had  come  true, 
And  that  among  all  mortal  men 
I  was  the  leader  with  the  pen. 
I  had  it  on  them  many  ways, 
From  scribbling  poems  to  essays, 
And  other  writers  vainly  vied 
While  I  romanced  and  versified. 

My  poems  were  a  perfect  passion, 
Embellished  in  a  frenzied  fashion, 
And  included  fiery  sonnets; 
The  most  ardent  of  canzonets, 
Also  odes  with  fervid  phrases, 
Ballads  singing  burning  praises, 
And  glowing  gems  of  lyric  lore, 
Like  shall  be  written  never  more. 


There  was  no  Puritan  restriction 
In  the  writing  of  my  fiction; 
So,  hence,  'twas  read,  despite  the  rules, 
By  lonely  maids  at  boarding  schools, 
Which  helped  to  swell  its  great  demand, 
For  who,  pray  tell,  could  long  withstand 
The  lure  of  novels  with  such  lovers 
That  the  pages  scorched  the  covers? 

A  wondrous  vision  then  I  had — 
Enough  to  make  a  sad  heart  glad, 
For,  lo!  before  me,  unconcealed, 
The  great  Hereafter  lay  revealed, 
With  the  immortal  all  in  view, 
But  few,  indeed,  were  those  I  knew, 
And  prominent  of  them  were  three — 
Dante,  Elinor  Glyn  and  Me! 


ASPIRATION  VERSUS  INSPIRATION 

Methought  a  book  I'd  like  to  write, 
And  with  a  bright,  aspiring  light 
Burning  deep  within  my  soul, 
As  if  the  Scribe  Gods  to  cajole, 
I  set  my  wits  about  to  think, 
Secured  my  trusty  pen  and  ink, 
Arranged  for  work  my  writing  kit, 
And  prayed  to  make  a  lasting  hit. 

The  proper  way  did  I  begin 
By  selecting  a  heroine — 
The  kind  with  blue,  sapphiry  eyes, 
And  boundless  spirit — Chamberswise ; 
With  beautiful  near-Auburn  hair, 
Vivacious,   stunning,   debonair  ; 
Withal,   the   most   attractive  maid 
That  e'er  a  part  in  fiction  played. 

A  hero,  too,  I  had  to  find, 

One  of  the  well-known  classic  kind 

That  epithets  cannot  describe — 

A  member  of  no  living  tribe, 

But  borrowed  from  a  bygone  day 

When  man  was  made  of  finer  clay, 

When  better  blood  flowed  through  his  veins, 

And  when  his  head  contained  some  brains! 

Then  next  I  found  it  was  my  lot 
To  work  out  an  engaging  plot, 
Wherein  the  germ  of  Love  should  be 
The  cause  of  a  conspiracy; 

65 


With  action  running  through  the  lines — 
But   free   from   luring  concubines, 
Because  I'm  not  the  guilty  wretch 
To  execute  a  "problem"  sketch. 

I  thought  to  use  a  thin  veneer 
Of  moral  tone  and  atmosphere, 
With  local  color  and  romance 
In  quantities  of  great  expanse. 
Dramatic  power  there  should  be, 
Together  with  imagery, 
And  roles  emotional  combined, 
So  as  to  grip  the  reader's  mind. 

But,  now,  alas,  I  hate  to  own, 

I  found  my  gems  of  thought  had  flown, 

And  my  attempts  of  no  avail 

When  I  essayed  to  weave  the  tale. 

I  was  short  on  style  and  technique; 

My  rhetoric  was  very  weak; 

And  somewhat  to  my  consternation, 

I   found   I   lacked   INSPIRATION! 


66 


DOLEFUL  LINES  TO  A  DOUBTFUL 
DEAN 

".  .  .  But  with,  few  exceptions  our  people  are  liv- 
ing in  their  own  homes,  man  and  wife,  working 
together  for  the  family  interests  and  united  in 
their  principles  of  conduct  and  of  life,  and  their 
children  are  living  with  them,  watched  over 
and  supported  by  them  and  given  a  training  which 
will  fit  them  for  independence" — Dean  W ,  F. 
Magie  in  Anti-Suffrage  Speech. 

Just  think  of  what  will  come  to  pass 

If  women  get  the  vote; 
A  million  blissful  family  ties 

Will  instantly  be  smote  — 
Oh,  won't  some  savior  of  the  race 

Produce  an  ANTIdote! 

I  view  the  outlook  with  alarm, 

For  with  exceptions  few, 
Our  people  now  live  in  their  homes, 

Just  like  they  used  to  do; 
But  these  will  go,  if  women  vote — 

Straight  to  hellabaloo! 

This  cry  of  sex-equality 

Is  but  an  empty  squib, 
Indulged  in  by  near-humorists, 

Or,  seriously — a  fib; 
For  woman's  but  a  supplement 

Of  Adam's  surplus  rib! 


67 


The  kids  now  get  the  best  of  care; 

They're  raised  with  wondrous  skill 
And  trained  for  independence — tho 

If  women  vote  they  will 
Be  forced  to  slave  their  lives  away 

In  factory  and  mill. 

The  creatures  of  the  rib-wrought  sex 
Are  plotting  for  the  chance 

To  consummate  their  sovereignty 
Of  selfish  arrogance, 

And  soon  will  not  be  satisfied 
Until  they  wear  the  pants! 

I  think  what  boundless  happiness 
Would  grace  this  earthly  tract, 

With  nothing  to  encumber  us, 
And  peacefulness  a  fact, 

If  Adam's  loose  anatomy 
Had  only  held  intact! 


68 


HAPPY-GO-LUCKY  OPTIMISM 

Life's  a  swiftly  passing  dream — 

Be  of  cheer! 
Let  optimism  reign  supreme, 

Far  and  near. 

Take  the  heavy  with  the  light, 
Take  the  opaque  with  the  bright, 
Put  the  pessimist  to  flight — 

To  the  rear! 

When  the  boss  gives  you  a  call — 

Be  of  cheer! 
Some  day  he's  bound  to  have  a  fall, 

Quite  severe. 

Let  him  have  his  stupid  say, 
It  won't  always  be  that  way; 
Every  dog  must  have  his  day — 

On  this  sphere! 

When  your  wife  gets  mad  clear  through- 

Be  of  cheer! 
If  she's  inclined  to  be  a  shrew — 

Too  austere — 
Don't  angrily  upbraid  her, 
But  cautiously  evade  her, 
For  that's  the  way  God  made  her — 

Such  a  Dear! 
If  your  bank  roll  is  a  joke — 

Be  of  cheer ! 
Once  even  millionaires  were  broke, 

So  we  hear. 

Now  they  chum  with  dukes  and  earls, 
Purchase  limousines  and  pearls 
For  their  wives  and  chorus  girls — 
SOME  CAREER! 

69 


MY  FIRST  VACATION  GIRL 

I  met  her  at  Lake  Ripplebright,  that  summertime 
retreat — 

Her  name,  ah,  yes,  the  fair  damsel,  was  Mayon- 
naise Petite; 

A  most  attractive  name,  too,  don't  you  think?  And 
what  is  more, 

Her  fetching  looks  and  winning  ways  one  could 
not  but  adore. 

She  was  so  sweet  and  chic  and  blonde,  and  had  a 
dimpled  cheek — 

Plenty  of  it,  too,  said  some,  but  it  was  a  jealous 
streak 

In  them,  I  thought,  and  was  grieved  that  such  bit- 
terness of  mind 

Could  drive  people  to  the  defaming  of  their  fellow 
kind. 

Not  a  maiden  fair  at  Ripplebright  equalled  Miss 
Petite 

In  general  fascination,  and  then,  too,  she  was  dis- 
creet— 

Up  to  a  certain  point;  of  course,  not  so  to  interfere 

With  the  quest  of  our  pleasures  nor  the  fulness  of 
our  cheer. 

And  to  say  that  I  was  proud  to  have  such  a  comely 
girl 

Would  be  too  mild — indeed,  my  giddy  head  was  all 
awhirl, 

For  the  status  of  my  joy  was  perfect  while  it  lasted, 

And  this  went  on  for  two  full  weeks  ere  my  dreams 
were  blasted. 

70 


You  see,  we  killed  the  time  and  went  everywhere 
together. 

We  roamed  afar  through  fields  and  woods  in  favor- 
able weather, 

And  we  swam  as  best  we  could  in  a  shallow  lake- 
side nook 

Or  paddled  on  the  water,  fishing  with  a  bent-pin 
hook. 

In  the  evenings  we  enjoyed  the  subtle  art  of  dancing, 

Trotting  to  the  music's  strains,  so  mystic  and  en- 
trancing ; 

And  crowned  the  nightly  joys  with  a  little  moon- 
light walk, 

Indulging  in  caressing  and  confectionery  talk. 

My  weekly  wage  was  little;  in  fact  only  so  "much 

per, 
But  to  make  good  with  Mayonnaise,  I  spent,  I  will 

aver, 

With  all  the  extravagance  of  a  Smokeburgh  mil- 
lionaire, 
So  when  'twas  time  to  hustle  home  I  barely  had  my 

fare. 
But  I  cared  naught  for  money.    Shucks !    For  I  was 

happy  then, 
And  I  thought  the  supreme  moment  of  my  life  had 

come,  when 

Upon  her  rougy,  ruby  lips  I  kissed  her  au  revoir, 
And  she  gave  me  her  address  and  called  me  hers 

forever  more. 


The  work  I  did  when  I  got  back  for  some  time 

thereafter 
Cheered  not  my  associates,  and  I  only  earned  their 

laughter, 
When,    in   confidence,    I   told   them  of  my  lonely, 

love-sick  heart, 
Which  had  acted  queerly  since  she  and  I  were  torn 

apart. 
But  then,  for  retribution,  came  the  night  we  had 

arranged 

For  our  love   reunion,   and   with   my  loyalty  un- 
changed, 
I  sauntered  down,  my  heart  athrob,  to  the  address 

I  sought 
And  found  the  number  she  had  given — was  a  vacant 

lot. 

'Tis  quite  hard,  and  needless  now,  to  speak  of  my 

distraction, 
But  for  several  weeks  I  suffered  from  her  baneful 

action ; 
And  though  this  happened  years  ago,  I  cannot  help 

but  wonder 
If  vacation  chaps  now  know  the  spell  that  I  was 

under. 
And  I  wonder,  too,  should  that  summer  I  live  o'er 

again 
If,  in  the  name  of  thunder,  I  would  fall  for  tricks 

so  vain; 
And   if,  in  succeeding  summers,  her  folly  playing 

loose, 
Mayonnaise  was  ever  sauce  for  some  other  trusting 

goose. 


72 


THE  OLD  IRON  GROWLER 

How  queer  to  my. heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood, 

When  cruel  restrospection  presents  them  to  view! 
The  musty  old  sawmill,  where  I  daily  piled  wood, 

And  other  sad  blights  which  my  infancy  knew; 
The  rod  which  was  laid  on  my  sternward  exposure, 

The  big'elm  tree  from  which  I  had  a  bad  fall, 
The  barb-wire  rail  on  the  orchard  inclosure, 

And  e'en  the  beer  growler  which  hung  on  the 

wall. 

The  old  iron  growler,  the  galvanized  growler, 
The  much-dented  growler  which  hung  on  the  wall ! 

That  coveted  vessel  was  hailed  as  a  treasure, 

And  always  at  noon,  when  I  took  it  to  fill, 
Pa  found  it  the  source  of  an  infinite  pleasure, 

As  tired  and  thirsty  he  came  from  the  mill. 
How  quickly  he  seized   it,   with  hands  that  were 

eager, 
And   deeply  he   quaffed   of   the   cold,   quenching 

brew, 

While  I  hung  around  like  a  guilty  intriguer, 
Hoping  to  have  what  was  left  when  father  got 

through ; 

The  old  iron  growler,  the  galvanized  growler, 
The  much-dented  growler  my  infancy  knew! 


73 


How  oft  in  the  evening  would  father  receive  it, 

As,  poised  in  the  air,  it  inclined  to  his  lips! 
Not  a  regiment  of  men  could  force  him  to  leave  it, 

Though  armed  in  abundance  with  missiles  and 

whips. 
But  then  if,  by  chance,  he  aroused  mother's  ire, 

He  hiked  to  the  barn,  the  chicken-house  nigh  it, 
And  there  with  the  horse  and  the  fowls  he'd  retire, 

And  sleep  in  the  manger,  the  growler  near  by  it; 
The  old  iron  growler,  the  galvanized  growler, 
The  much-dented  growler,  a  history  of  riot! 


74 


THE  POET  HUMORIST 

This  land  has  been  a  fertile  field — 

A  fruitful  literary  clime — 
Which  has  produced  a  precious  yield 

Of  humor  both  in  prose  and  rhyme. 

Our  humorous  verse  received  its  start 
From  this  great  talented  array — 

Petroleum  Nasby,  Field  and  Harte, 
Ben  King,  Sam  Walter  Foss  and  Hay. 

Some  folks  lament  the  days  gone  by 
And  say  our  efforts  will  not  last ; 

They  claim  we  cannot  qualify 
To  hold  a  candle  with  the  past. 

That  this  is  true,  I  here  deny,  sir — 
Of  all  the  libelous  harangues! 

Why,  where  are  Braley,  Irwin,  Kiser, 
Walt  Mason,   Guiterman   and  Bangs? 

These  Masters  in  their  chosen  field 

Will  leave  their  marks  on  Father  Time, 

And  passing  years  have  not  revealed 
That  prose  has  anything  on  rhyme! 


75 


THE  WANTS  OF  MAN 

"Man  wants  but  little  here  below," 
Declared  a  bard  once  long  ago, 

But  times  have  changed  since  those  old  days; 
The  wants  of  man  are  now  immense, 

Some  want  to  win  a  world  of  praise, 
Some  steal  the  bloom  of  innocence 

And  toss  it,  wilted,  by  the  road 
Like  a  discarded  violet; 

(Some  would  be  paid  what  they  are  owed!) 
Most  all  want  more  than  they  can  get. 

"Man  wants  but  little  here  below," 
Sang  the  poet  of  long  ago, 

"Nor  wants  that  little  long,"  said  he. 
Yes,  times  have  changed  since  then,  alas! 

Some  scheme  at  business  piracy 
And  strive  a  fortune  to  amass — 

Attempt  to  gain  financial  fame; 
Some  grabbers,  in  their  hardihood, 

Would  corral  the  earth  without  shame 
And  take  it  with  them  if  they  could. 


THE  BOLT  FROM  THE  HEAVENS 

It  taught  us  to  respect  a  vital  force; 

And,  seeking  with  an  effort  for  the  means, 
We  struck  upon  an  artificial  source, 

And  generated  power  with  machines. 
We  realized  the  value  of  its  might, 

If  harnessed  up  and  subject  to  our  will, 
To  dissipate  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  turn  the  wheels  of  factory  and  mill ; 
To  speed  the  train  and  tram  on  many  roads, 

Send  messages  through  aerial  expanse; 
To  ease  the  backs  of  men  of  heavy  loads, 

And  expedite  humanity's  advance. 


77 


THE  GOOD  DIE  YOUNG 

"The  good  die  young,"  it  has  been  said, 
Yet  folks  will  say  when  one  is  dead: 

"Oh,  praise  be  for  that  worthy  life, 
So   long  engaged   in   righteous  strife, 
Which  reaped  the  fulness  of  its  day!" 
If  ripe  in  years  it  passed  away. 

But  if,  in  tender  years — 'twill  be: 
"My,  what  a  shocking  tragedy! 
With    countless    missions    unfulfilled, 
A  noble  heart's  forever  stilled." 

"The  good  die  young" — 'tis  truly  told ! 
The  charm  of  goodness  ne'er  grows  old. 


78 


JEANNE  D'ARC 

Bronze  equestrian  statue  of  Jeanne  D'Arc,  Anna 
Vaughn  Hyatt,  Sculptor,  unveiled  and  dedicated 
December  6,  191$,  at  Riverside  Drive  and  93rd 
Street,  New  York  City. 

Immortal  spirit  of  a  darkened  age, 

When  heresy  was  deemed  the  damning  crime, 
What  loyal   follower  would  dare  presage 

The  heights  which  you  have  gained  in  passing 

time. 
Forgotten  are  the  lords  who  warred  and  won; 

Your  friend  and  foe,  alike,  of  high  estate, 
Are  nothing  now  but  names  of  mortals  gone — 

Or  just  as  withered  marks  on  history's  slate! 

We  see  you  there  in  shining  coat  of  mail, 

Astride  a  charger  keen  to  do  your  will, 
Unflinching  in  your  ardor  to  prevail, 

When  Orleans'  gate  went  down  before  your  thrill. 
We  see  you  then,  alas,  in  Rouen's  square, 

A  crowning  Maid  of  scarce  a  score  of  years; 
Unflinching,  proud,  before  the  fagots'  flare — 

A  mission  filled  sublimely — without  fears! 

Your  honored  name  is  now  a  cherished  word — 

Aye,  more,  a  symbol  of  the  deathless  deeds 
That  travel  down  the  ages,  undeterred, 

And  satisfy  the  soul's  craving  needs. 
The  lustre  of  your  memory  beautifies 

As  years  are  added  to  the  endless  score, 
And  tribute  to  your  valor  multiplies, 

While  rebel  spirits  treasure  you  the  more! 

79 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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